Birds of a Feather
by HawtPawkets
Summary: Post season 9. Demon Dean, trapped in the bunker, is having a problem with his wings. Cas helps. Rated M for language and mildly suggestive themes. I may add another chapter, or leave it at this.


Castiel stood in the kitchen, looming over a pot of coffee. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

Life was pretty bad at the moment. He was in pain, and his wings felt like they were burning, crumbling, right off of the body that could no longer support them. Cas remembered when they used to be beautiful, back when he had all his grace. He remembered when they would cascade down his back and rustle happily whenever he flew. Angels weren't supposed to take pride in appearances, but Cas' wings were always comforting to him. They looked so pure, and soft and neat. When he was caught up with Crowley, and later the Leviathans, his body may have been corrupt, but those wings stayed white. They were the only things that consistently reminded him that he was, at least in theory, good.

Well, that, and Dean Winchester.

Now, both were left tarnished and unrepairable. When Sam walked in to find Cas leaning over the kitchen counter, face all contorted in pain, he didn't even say anything. It had become such a common occurrence. A week ago, Sam would have asked if there was anything he could do, but now he didn't bother. There was nothing. Asking made it worse.

So instead, he just poured Cas a cup of cheap coffee and handed it to him, smiling sadly. He took the mug but didn't drink from it. Sam coughed awkwardly, "Uh, Cas, I hate to do this but uh, do you think you could go check on Dean? You seem like you would understand his problem more than me."

"What problem?" Cas said, in a deeply monotone voice.

"Something with his wings? Or along those lines. I got out when he started bitching."

For the past week, Dean had been kept in the bunker of Bobby's house, stuck in a devil trap and surrounded by salt. He didn't need to eat and he didn't sleep, so Dean spent his time plotting escape plans. Crowley had come at some point and talked to him from the outside of the devil trap, told him that he "would get em out of there." But nothing had come of it yet.

It's not like Dean was going to go mental and start killing Sammy or Cas. It's not like he was going to burn the world down or slaughter kittens or something. The only reason he was locked in this God-forsaken cage was because his "keepers" were too damn afraid to deal with him. If he stayed locked up, Cas and Sam could forget who-or what-he was. They could pretend that nothing had ever happened.

He expected as much from Sammy, he really did. But Cas seemed like he should know better. There was no forgetting the demon in your basement, especially when that demon was Dean Winchester and he had taken to singing "Sympathy for the Devil" whenever he got bored.

Cas straightened up, and brushed out the folds in his trench-coat before he made his way to the bunker. When he got there, Dean was lying on his back in the middle of the star. His hands rested peacefully on his chest, like he was asleep, but his eyes were wide open and burning into the ceiling.

To humans, Dean was perceived just as before but with black eyes and a more sinister . Cas saw the real changes.

He still had a soul, but it had been warped and twisted throughout his body. It cast a dark, ashy feel over the rest of him, like the room got darker around if light was afraid to touch him. Then of course, there were the wings.

Dean smiled when Cas walked in, "Hey there feathers." He grumbled, and threw himself into an upright position.

"Hello Dean. Sam told me that you needed my assistance?"

Dean laughed cruelly. "Assistance. Ha. LIke I need assistance from a disintegrating moth like you." Cas didn't reply. In honestly, it was true. He turned his back to the door and began to leave.

"No wait. Cas. Wait," Dean rushed, as he stood up, " I do.. I mean.. there is something I want to ask though." Castiel turned back around and cocked an eyebrow,.

"I… well I have this fucking pain in my wings and it feels like they are going to burn right off and does that just come with the whole rotting-in-hell package or what?"

Cas smiled. "Turn around," he said, "let me see them."

Although it felt weirdly intimate to do so, Dean faced the opposite wall and spread his wings out as far as they could go. It was quiet for a good minute as Cas studied them.

They were so different to angel wings, but they still held a sort of holy power. Dean had red-ish, black wings, shaped sort of like a bat's, but they weren't so smooth. Tiny, rough feathers covered the surface but they stuck out haphazardly, twisted and out of order. They were beautiful in the same way that barren trees are in the winter.

Cas walked up towards Dean, past the devil's trap, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched. "I.. know what's wrong." Cas said, lamely, as the demon turned around to face him. "Your wings grew in too fast, and without any care. They've become unkempt and painful because there's been no one to… you know," Cas gestured encompassingly.

"No, actually, I don't know." Dean said, grumbling.

"Uh, groom them." There was a moment of silence again before Cas continued. "When angels, or demons for that matter, are born there is usually a caretaker of some sort to help them… adjust… You've lacked a caretaker, so now your wings are in pain."

"Well damn, is there a way I can fix it?" Dean asked, folding his wings back in and turning to face Cas.

"Not unless you are very flexible."

Dean smirked, his eyes flickering to black, "Hmm."

"You need to brush the feathers down and fix the ones that are cutting you," Cas continued, "But be careful not to pull any out, or cut your hands as you do so."

"Care to give an example, professor?" Dean kept smiling this cruel half-smile, "A demonstration, perhaps?"

Castiel coughed, "I don't think that will be necessary." In all honesty, he was ashamed of his wings at this point. He was ashamed at the loss of feathers and the discoloration and how generally unpleasant they looked. He might as well have demon wings, they had become so dark and hopeless looking.

"C'mon angel boy, I like your feathers," Dean nodded, "Spread em', why don't you?"

"Dean. Leave me out of this."

Just as he said that, the demon collapsed on the floor, moaning. "Holy fucking hell this sucks," Dean unfurled his wings again and attempted to guide them in front of him and to his hands. He managed to grab the tip of the wing, but doing so sliced his hand down the middle. He grunted again. "Naturally."

"Dean, I told you not to do that."

"Yeah well I'm kinda fucking new to this, okay? Do I look like I know the first damn thing about wing hygiene?" Dean sputtered, still picking at the few feathers he could reach.

Cas stepped forward and crouched down behind Dean, lifting out his hands towards him. On a closer inspection, the red in his wings was actually just dried blood, and completely clean they would probably be pure black. Cas ran a soft hand down the base of the wing, and he shuddered in response. "I can fix it but it might take some time and it might hurt."

He didn't respond, just lifted the heavy wings and set them in Castiel's lap.

Cas felt uneasy about it, but eventually began to untangle the mess in front of him, picking and rubbing at the scaley feathers. Dean remained quiet, but had hunched over at some point. It was still, methodical, but pleasant in some way. Castiel had such a gentle touch. It was tender, almost loving. And the feel of someone touching his wings was so unusual and comforting, it took all Dean had not to sigh and lean back into his arms. Not that he would ever admit that. He was a fucking demon for christ sake, and this angel… was surely just annoying him.

After about ten minutes, Cas sighed, "I'm sorry Dean."


End file.
